Song of myself, ourself

I stood at the Hoh Head on the Washington coast and looked out on the lone, proud rock that stood hard against the sea

And the clouds moved like a membrane, how they swelled and became gauze across my eyes and it felt good, like a burial cloth

And I realized I was in a painting then looking out on the lone, proud rock, imagining myself there:

And the waves rolled in and began to accumulate, and the birds made W’s and M’s when they flapped their wings, and I made words in my head

And in the corner of the picture was a figure with his hands in his pockets looking across the sea, longing for it

To be nature’s guest for a night, to take in what we can, to fill our pockets full of rocks, and wear ourselves out

I took to the woods to disappear, to run until my feet disappeared into the ground and I lost all feeling

And it was not me on the path then but something more that managed to emerge

I walked out on the tide to follow it to the lone, proud rock, and thought I could be one with it if I just kept going, until my feet sank into the sand and swallowed me

We are like the waves too, crashing as if by accident into each other, racing to the shore, then receding

And it’s why we come back, to remember there’s more than ourselves and we can disappear,

To know we can’t take it with us and don’t need to, it’s always here.

Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , , , , ,

12 replies

  1. That was quite powerful, and I liked the picture very much.


  2. yes, it’s always there. – pretty words and pic –


  3. “To be nature’s guest for the night” is wonderful. I feel you feeling good writing this/experiencing this.


Leave a comment!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: